


Varying Shades of Grey

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Gen, Practice Piece, dream - Freeform, tw: gore, tw:implied rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the late hours of night, when paralysis of the mind lulls you into a sickly sweet death, we dream. Will Graham dreams, and in his dreams he sees his design.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Varying Shades of Grey

The world seems coated, transformed with a hazy mist of the subconscious, lingering in the midst of the depths of the human mind, and the cold reality of night. Will knew at an instant he was dreaming, as his limbs locked themselves, and his mind eased for the onslaught of his imagination. Dreams were where his demons hid themselves, cloaking in the guise of pleasantry before taking their true form, only once it was too late. Night terrors, shaking thoughts bathed in the built-up sweat; where every night, he saw, he lived, he was victim once more. This night, however, seemed almost entirely different than the rest, no flashing frames of death, only a soft mist, curling between himself, and the unpleasantly familiar door. A visceral, lucid haze, with only his mind privy to the box of horrors that awaited.

Slowly, Will made his way to the solitary entry among an endless field of grey and fog. The handle turned without resistance, slowly floating open to a familiar world of elegant beauty. The mist curled behind him, travelling past his legs and drifting into the room. Lonely, on a single Ottoman lounger laid a woman. Soft chestnut hair falling back against the leather, painted eyes shut in gentle bliss. She wore the bluest dress he had ever seen, as beautiful and daunting as the sea; elevated to the level of an untouchable goddess. It was Alana. Who was he kidding? It was always Alana.

Softly making his way to her side, the fog followed, drifting over her hair in soft tendrils, extending out to flesh out every bit of her form. He was close enough to see her fully now, breast gently rising with each breath of air, tossing the fog back with each wispy exhale. Her shoes clamoured loosely to her feet, the heels already popped out, clinging now to her toes. Even when she wasn’t awake, with those dazzling blue orbs gazing back, peering with knowledge and curiosity, she was still beautiful. Hesitantly, the man reached out, grasping a loose curl that had claimed her cheek, and brushing it back to the soft maze with the rest of its kind.

Making his way from the woman, Will entered through a passageway, greeted by a lovely dining room, but it seemed that only the first layer was truly lovely. A set table, steaming meat upon fine linen, but the flowers in the vase were dying. A stranglehold for life in the prison of their glass. Their struggled cemented in the tortuous gleam of the silverware. For the briefest of moments, the man felt the dream subside to realize where he lay, the dense cot and creaking metal that surrounded him. And then, just as he was set free, he was wrangled up again, encased in a prison completely of his doing. He knew where he was, and Will knew, he knew what was on the table. Inhaling sharply, the male pressed onto his temples, glasses shifting as he did so and fog rushing forward on a gale like gust, rustling the linen and casting flower petals to the dark wood floor. And then, nothing, still like a haunting eye, residing in a decaying socket. Flesh pulled about it, feigning life, but the milky curl in the retina destroying any sense of theatrics, and reducing it back down to the simplest of human characteristic: death.

A blink, a single shutter of darkness and the scene changes. A cloudy afternoon unfolds into a rainy evening, the sky a darkened shade of purple, clouds illuminated from the hazy glow of the city. A table rests between Will and gargoyle of his nightmares, adorned with stag antlers and black and gaunt. It stares ahead, before graciously offering his hand to the assortment of food before him. Mist billowing from beneath the table, the man stands, nearly knocking over the table, and falling over his chair in the process. The gargoyle stares at him, then glances to the food and back to him. A seemingly emotionless smile grasps his lips, curling them into a haunting and twisted expression, vague in meaning, but intention deafening loud.

And that’s when he began to run. Endless rows of books, tables, sketches, and antlers passed in a blur, the fog only catching to his heel when he thought to slow for a minute. But the pounding, the pounding in Will’s head spurred him forward, catching his heaving chest as he pushed as far as he could. Collapsing, slowly he fell, chest finding the ground and stubbled cheek pressing to the grain of the wood. Hot breath poured out, steaming the floor and his glasses. The startled, paranoid feeling sunk in, as if he had lost time again. He felt beaten, shred of his soul and emotions; hollow, raw. Fear was nipping at him, tearing chunks of sanity, and whatever haunted eyes peered into his back seemed to dissipate, but not the feeling they left.

Raising his head, the hollow of Will’s mind receded into the darkness crevices, not filled, but hidden. And just as if he had never left, he was back in the hall. The mist had found its way, slowly beginning to fill the hall again, Alana laid, no longer with the modest beauty of before, this time in a sensually astounding manner. Her hair was spread like an offering against the white leather, flowing beneath her in gentle curling ripples. She remained half cloaked, black silk sheet clutched between a half open palm, gliding across her backside and across her torso, leaving her slender stomach and breasts exposed to the light. Her feet were curled in the sheet, wrapped around like a cocoon as they rested partially on their side. Jewellery and clothing cast aside, Alana was as she was intended to be, stunning.

A sickening emotion strangled Will’s stomach, throttling him, causing him to reexamine the woman. The ethereal silence was what first alerted him to the fact he was alone. Alana was still, chest without movement. Rushing forward, the man pressed his fingers to the underside of the woman’s chilled neck, only greeted with stiff skin and unyielding limbs. Falling back as though he had been thrown, the man gaped in horror at the corpse before him. Stumbling backward, black silk caught on his heel, dragging across the ground, past the legs of Dr.Bloom. And what the sheet hid was something most gruesome. The flesh and meet of the woman’s left leg was bare. The discoloured thigh was the only haunting indicator of the horrors beneath; stripped bone, notches knocked into the tibia, flowing into the ignored flesh of the foot. Bruises adorned her thighs, and her bare body was no longer a sight of sexual beauty, but a sight of grizzly mistrust; abuse.

Awaking, with all air in his lung suckled out, Will grasped at the stained matt, his heart racing, body basked in sweat. Sucking back as much of the stale prison air as he could, the man eased himself into consciousness, the only offer of sympathy was Gideon’s disturbing chuckle. “Ah, yes, the nightmares… That’s all we have left now, isn’t it?”

Silence echoed back as Will curled back towards the stone wall, awaiting morning, mind swirling. His visitor, one of his only visitors was coming in the morning.

Alana stared blankly at the man, and despite the bars the gaze felt like a strike to his face. Was his concern not welcome? Did he no longer have any right to worry about her well being? Jaw shuddering, Will twined his hand in his lap, and let out a shaky sigh. The ocean blue examining him, and waiting.

“All I will say now is be cautious. These walls make me frightened, not paranoid… It isn’t black and white anymore, Alana— it’s grey, and Hannibal Lecter is charcoal.”


End file.
